


gossip folks

by cakecakecake



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Dick Jokes, Explicit Language, Future Fic, Gossip, Hand-wavy Canon, Headcanon, Married Life, Multi, Post-War, Sex Talk, Tea Parties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:00:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23708023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakecakecake/pseuds/cakecakecake
Summary: reupload; it's constance's birthday, and hilda needs some gossip to get her through the afternoon.
Kudos: 4





	gossip folks

**Author's Note:**

> honestly i just needed an excuse to write hilda being a menace.
> 
> minor spoilers re: lysithea if you haven't read all her supports
> 
> this is a peaceful unified fodlan au in which the agarthans and the church of seiros have both been brought down, but not much of that is relevant here -- this piece is honestly just a glorified shitpost.
> 
> relationships mentioned (i don't want to clog the main tags):  
> lysithea/balthus  
> hilda/claude  
> constance/ferdinand  
> petra/ashe  
> leonie/ingrid  
> dorothea/manuela  
> annette/mercedes

One hour.

For onne hour, Hilda has been at the Nuvelle estate, and already she’s been subject to the newlyweds’ sickeningly sweet (borderline obscene) exhibit of their melodramatic romance. 

In the time it took to walk her through the foyer, past the dining room, and through to the gate to the veranda, Ferdinand had done all but pin his wife to the wall. Grabbing her ass, sliding his hands up her dress, mouthing at her neck like a vulture -- he’s always been rather shameless, but not like this. To be fair, it _is_ Constance’s birthday, and if they had been anyone else, she would have expected no less -- but, given that they are Who They Are, she can’t help but be more than a little annoyed. Sure, they’re still in their honeymoon phase, but she hasn’t seen either of them in at least two years. She’s come all the way from Edmund territory, they could pay a _little_ bit more attention to her!

“More tea, ladies?” Ferdinand skitters to the table for the umpteenth time, a steaming pot in his gloved hands. It takes nearly all the strength Hilda can muster to resist rolling her eyes.

“So attentive, Ferdie!” Dorothea congratulates him, irony laced in her voice. “What’s the point in having housemaids if you don’t allow them to work?”

“At the risk of offense, I’m afraid their brewing skills are not quite on par with mine,” he gloats, and wrinkles his nose at the birthday girl. Folding at the waist, he coos into her ear, “Wouldn’t you agree, dear heart?”

Constance bursts into an endearingly obnoxious fit of giggles. Leonie, the only other woman at this table as impatient as Hilda, shares a knowing glance with her before suppressing a groan.

“Are you sure you’re comfortable out here, darling?”

She cups his jaw, pressing a light kiss to his cheek as she nuzzles into his hair.

“Oh, worry not for me, my dearest! The sun has yet to peek from behind the clouds! We’ve been blessed with a delightfully overcast afternoon,” she chirps, making nauseating doe eyes at the former Duke, who only seems to melt further into her touch. Ferdinand whimpers and it’s only the slightest bit pathetic. 

“If you insist, dear heart -- but please, let me know if you start feeling unwell!” He kisses the top of her head, and she pulls him down to plant her lips fully on his. And then they stay like that. For almost a full minute, mouths glued to each other’s, the little smacking noises of their swappage of spit probing Hilda’s eardrums. Geez. Were she and Claude ever this gross? 

Leonie audibly sighs. It’s not like Constance ever scolds her anyway, so she makes her distaste apparent, but Petra, ethereal being that she is, mutters simple words of adoration under her breath as Dorothea and Annette stare wide-eyed at each other from across the way. 

Hilda helps herself to a thick slice of chocolate pie, stuffing her mouth full to avoid saying anything in front of the overly sensitive man. Honestly, she would regret coming at all, but as insufferable as he is, Ferdinand is an excellent cook. And in truth, watching them isn’t the _worst_ form of torture -- she’s just a little jealous. It’s been over a month since she’s last seen her own husband, and watching a happy couple flirt relentlessly in front of her tea isn’t doing much to help with the pining. No matter, though -- she’ll get back at the lady of the house in due time. 

She starts by knocking her pointed toes against her ankle under the table. 

“Geez, Coco,” she starts to tease her, “do you ever get tired of being so in love with your husband?” 

Yelping, the noble lady touches a hand to her breast, eyebrows flying up. “Ouch! Heavens, Hilda, had I known our displays of affection would offend you so, I would not have extended the invitation!” 

Hilda laughs, and three of the other women share it with her. Except Annette, who kicks under her chair. “What’s the matter, Hil? Missing Claude?”

“How _is_ the King of Almyra?” Leonie interjects, stretching her arms high over her head. “I feel like it’s been ages.”

“Not King yet,” she replies, huffing out a frustrated sigh at the introduction of such a boring topic, but Constance and Petra are leaning forward in interest. She would much rather gossip, but she supposes she can entertain her noble lady friends for a minute at her own expense. “He’s going to be in the Capital for another month, at least.”

“Such a long time to be away,” Dorothea mutters sympathetically. “And you were just married!”

“That’s another thing too! Apparently, the Almyran Court is having issues recognizing a Fodlanese union,” Hilda laments, annoyed just thinking about it again, “ -- well, in addition to having issues with...pretty much everything else. We’re hoping a council with Dimitri and Edelgard will help settle things down.”

“So _that’s_ where His Highness went off to,” Annette realizes. “He left Fhirdiad without a proper address last week.”

“If he went with Edie, that’s probably why,” Dorothea guesses, poking at her strawberry cake. 

“Ugh, Faerghans are the worst!” Annette bursts, and the table dissolves into giggles. “The Emperor has done nothing but help our people thrive, I don’t understand! Wouldn’t a relationship between her and our King be a comfort?”

“More like a point of contention, since she took away all funding for their churches,” Leonie quips, and Annette groans even louder. 

“Yeah, and because of that, the poor can _eat_! What’s so bad about that!” 

“Preaching to the choir, Annie,” Dorothea reminds her. 

“Why not come live in the Empire?” Constance sincerely suggests. “With Nuvelle’s expanded territory, I’d be happy to have an estate built for you here!” 

“Ugh, I wish!” she smiles sadly, taking a bite of a flaky pastry. “I have a contract with the school. I can’t leave for another three years. And with Mercie pregnant -- "

And then Annette chokes on her own breath, having caught herself. Dorothea pats her on the back, wearing the same shocked expression Petra is -- Constance nearly spits out her tea. Hilda barks out laughing. 

“She’s pregnant?!” 

“ _Again_?” Leonie adds, lifting her brows so far up they disappear into her hair. Annette grabs at a table napkin and tries to swallow her coughs. 

“She didn’t tell me!” Constance cries out, throwing her fork. “She promised she would tell me first!”

“Hehe, surprise!” Annette jokes, apologetically, finally managing to inhale and exhale properly. Hilda is almost doubled over, happy to indulge in something much more riveting than politics. Finally! “She was going to tell you herself, but I just ruined it!”

“How many months is she?” Petra asks, smiling fondly. 

“About three in,” the redhead answers, pushing back the stray hairs from her up-do. “I’m so sorry Constance, she really wanted to tell you herself!”

“I forgive you both,” she pouts, adjusting her ruffled necktie. “But still! When were you planning on saying something!” 

“We wanted to be sure there were no complications first!” Annette defends herself. “You know how it is with magical conceptions…”

“Do you think you magicked yourselves a girl this time?” Leonie teases and she guffaws. 

“I can only hope so! Goodness, after Teddy, I wasn’t sure I wanted a second at all, honestly -- oh, but don’t tell her I told you that!” 

“It’ll be our secret,” Dorothea winks at her. “The first child is always the hardest, boy or girl. Manny and I struggled so much with Daisy! But after three, I think we’re managing at last.” 

“Oh, how are the little ones?” Constance asks her, eyes sparkling.

“They’re perfect, absolutely perfect,” the songstress gushes, pink blossoming in her cheeks. “Daisy and Caroline are learning piano! And Joline just turned a year old, so Manny is having their portraits painted while I’m away.”

“How darling!” 

Having no children of their own, Hilda and Leonie use the shift in conversation to pick the coveted cherries out of the fruit bowl while the birthday girl continues to grill the mothers -- 

“And how is Christophe, Petra?” 

“He is my treasure,” Brigid’s queen smiles fondly, inclining her magnificent head. The jewelry adorning her hair jingles as she does so. “I think he is becoming lonely, though. Lately, he begs me and Ashe to make him into a big brother, but we have no luck. So I think we will be adopting more children. It is fun trying to become pregnant again, though! Ashe is liking the harness you told us about, Leonie.” 

Constance gurgles on her tea. 

“Well if all you’re doing is using the harness on him -- ” Leonie tries, but can’t finish --

“It is not the only thing we are doing!” 

“Getting pregnant can be tricky no matter which way you’re going about it,” Dorothea offers. She opens her mouth again to continue, but Constance makes to stand, looking anxiously about her company. 

“Is anyone in need of more tea? We seem to have nearly drained the pot, and I wouldn’t want to run out before our last guest arrives!”

“Another guest?” Hilda interrupts her guilelessly, bolting upright. “Who else is coming?”

“Oh, you hadn’t heard? Miss von Ordelia will be gracing us with her presence!” Constance says without a trace of irony. Hilda blinks rapidly, taken aback -- 

“Lysithea?” 

“Wow, I haven’t seen her in _years_ ,” Leonie balks. “Not since she renounced her nobility -- where is she even living now?” 

“With Balthus, I presume,” Dorothea guesses, smirking. 

Hilda feels the wheels in her head screech to a halt. “With WHO -- ?”

“Balthus!” Dorothea and Constance say together, and Hilda feels like she’s been hit so hard it gives her whiplash. 

“Baltie?” _Baltie_? And _Lysithea_? Did she just hear that right? “You’re kidding me."

“They’re together?” Annette asks, and Dorothea shrugs. 

“That’s what Yurikins told me.” 

“Balthus told me of the good news in his birthday letter for me!”

Hilda baffles, reaching for the bottled mead across the table -- Baltie and Lysithea? What in Foldan’s nuts? 

Her head starts spinning a hundred miles a second. Balthus von Albrecht was the opposite of what Lysithea admired, even tolerated -- he’s boorish, irrational, a poor planner, reckless, a gambler, irresponsible -- and she’s not exactly his Type, either. Baltie liked women, lots of women, but mostly older women -- which, at twelve years younger, Lysithea was mostly certainly not. How on the Goddess’s green earth had this romance sparked? Are they even compatible? How do they manage the age difference? 

More importantly, what about that _size_ difference?

“How does _that_ work?” she blurts out loud, asking no one in particular. She pours herself a shot of mead and locks eyes with Dorothea, who snorts into her tea so hard it splashes Petra. The opera star apologizes profusely, but the queen laughs it off, asking instead, with interest -- 

“What do you mean, ‘how does that work’? They are in love, how would it not?” 

Annette presses her lips into a hard line to suppress a giggle that she fails to stifle, miserably. There’s a beat of silence as Constance shoots Hilda a warning look, glaring at her with the intensity of the flaring sun she hates so much. Unfortunately for her, a Goneril is a Goneril, and a Goneril needs her gossip. And honestly, how could Baltie tell the birthday girl but not her, his childhood best friend? She’s practically his family! She dumps the shot into her cup and takes an aggressive sip. 

“Let’s not be crass, now, Hilda dearest!”

“Um, we were literally just talking about pegging,” Leonie deadpans. Petra looks quizzically at her.

“Pegging?”

“What you do to Ashe, with the harness,” Hilda explains briefly, and her eyes brighten with clarity. 

“Oh, right! I was not aware of the term.”

“ _Hilda_!” Constance fusses, but she’s having a great time again. She takes another generous sip of her spiked tea. 

“Anyway, Petra, I just meant that Baltie is so _big_ , and Lysithea is so tiny. I just can’t imagine that works very well.” 

“What is their sizing having to do with their relationship?” 

Constance stretches to kick her under the table, but Hilda tucks her legs out of her reach and sticks her tongue out. Annette and Dorothea are giggling and Leonie reluctantly laughs along, stuffing her face with another piece of cake. Oh, this is delightful. She hopes Lysithea isn’t showing up for a while. 

“Well, think about it,” Hilda starts smugly, winking at their host, “have you ever been with a big guy?” 

Brigid’s young monarch shrugs and shakes her head. “I have only been with Ashe.” 

That’s not exactly the reply she’d expected. She tries to make some effort to hide her surprise, but thankfully it doesn’t seem as though Petra notices it. Hilda never wanted to be the girl who’d only ever slept with her husband, but Ashe Ubert is letting her peg him, so maybe it’s a more exciting sex life than she originally credited to her. Good for her! Good for her. On to the next.

“How about you, Annette? Didn’t you sleep with Sylvain? Was he big?” she pokes her friend, relishing the way her neck flushes red in a matter of seconds. Too easily, she’d forgotten how much fun it is to fluster Annette -- Mercedes must love it. 

“O-Oh, I don’t know -- I’m not sure if he was that big, or if I’m just small...” 

Constance looks dangerously close to blowing a gasket. Petra has started to giggle, Getting It, finally, and Leonie leans back and laughs in a lazy, easy way. Dorothea takes her own shot of the mead.

“He’s not that big.”

“Okay but when did _you_ fuck him, ten years ago?” Hilda reminds her. “He’s probably bigger now.” 

“W-Well, I would say he is,” Annette amends, redder than a gardenia. “By my standards, at least! I mean, I didn’t take out a measuring stick, but he was -- ”

“What about Felix?” Hilda prods her, glancing sideways at their hostess who now has her nose buried in meat pie, silently fuming. 

“Oooh, I used to wonder about Felix,” Dorothea ponders. “I’ve always felt like he was overcompensating for something.” 

Hilda laughs madly with relish, tossing her head back so far she almost topples from her chair. This is prime entertainment, a better afternoon than she could have hoped for -- 

“I’ve only ever kissed Felix!” Annette squeals like a baby mouse. “I swear!”

“Definitely overcompensating.” Leonie comes to her rescue with a casual comment, taking to the bottle of mead. Hilda feels the color drain from her cheeks, her laughter stopping in her throat as the rest of the table joins in to peer at her, bewildered. Even Constance looks shocked. 

“How would you know?” Dorothea gets there before Hilda can, and then catches on before her, too. “Wait, you mean Ingrid -- ?” 

“Yeah, back before the war. They used to hook up.”

“I knew it!” Hilda kicks her feet like an excited toddler, nearly spilling her drink. “No wonder she moved on to women. Felix was always so mean, anyway."

“Hey, if your dick was the length of a pocket knife, you’d be cranky all the time too,” Leonie quips, and that’s what finally coaxes a howling laugh from the head of House Nuvelle. Constance scream-laughs into her cup, the piercing ring of her voice sending the nearby birds fluttering off in a flurry of feathers past the veranda. Ferdinand pokes his head out of the kitchen window, tittering like an anxious parakeet.

“Is everything alright, ladies?” 

“Oh Ferdinand!” Hilda calls out to the former Duke, waving her arm. “Do you have a big dick?”

The Lady Nuvelle’s expression changes in a fraction of a second, a dramatic switch from maniacal cackling rapture to ghost-white panic. It’s a phenomenon, truly. Hilda feels truly blessed to witness it, although she could forgo the shrieks of her name in her ears as the girls clamor around to either scold her or stop her from repeating the question. Clueless, Ferdinand leans farther out the window, cupping a hand around one of his ears and Hilda can barely contain her glee. It’s like she’s back in the academy, shouting obscenities across the second floor dormitory again only to be scolded by her neighboring occupants. 

“What was that, Hilda?” he strains, and Constance leaps across the table to clasp a hand over her mouth, knocking the tower of sweets aside as she does so. Leonie is in stitches. It’s a wonder she’s still seated at this point. Dorothea is laughing so hard she’s crying into Petra’s shoulder. Annette has gotten up to jog a stress-lap around the garden, laughing all the way.

“Nothing, my darling! Go back inside!” He shrugs, disappearing back into the house, and Constance hisses like a furious kitten in Hilda’s face. “Are you INSANE, Valentine Goneril?! What are you thinking, asking my husband such a wildly untoward question! Have you not an _ounce_ of decorum in your blood?” 

“It’s Goneril von Reigan,” she reminds her with a coy grin, “and what, don’t you think Ferdinand would _love_ to discuss the impressive size of his manhood? Unless you’d like to tell us yourself, of course, but that’s not as fun -- ”

“I’ll have you know my husband is quite well-endowed, thank you very much!” she barks like a toy poodle, cheeks burning scarlet. 

“Really? Biggest you’ve had?” 

“HILDA!” Dorothea wheezes, clutching Petra’s arm and shaking it. 

“Are we still talking about penises?” Annette jogs back around to the table. 

“Unfortunately,” Leonie laughs, rearranging the pastry display with a seething Constance. “How did we even get on this train of thought, anyway?” 

“Because I want to know how on _earth_ Lysithea is handling that monster cock!” Hilda explodes. Dorothea looks like she’s done for -- she plants her face right onto the table, her tearful laughter muffled by the cluster of napkins. Petra stares wide-eyed at Constance, who now has gone so spectrally pale she might as well have turned transparent. Annette snorts so hard that a tiny glob of snot lands in her cup and Leonie loses it completely, laughing so hard she has to get out of her seat and run a lap of her own. 

Hilda has never felt this crazy. _Is_ she crazy? How couldn’t they have been thinking the same thing this entire time? Why aren’t they desperate to discuss this valid concern? Aren’t they worried about Lysithea at all? Aren’t they?! 

“I honestly don’t know how long I’m gonna be able to stay if you’re going to keep spitting out words like that,” Leonie struggles to even out her breathing, clutching the back of her chair. Constance has her face buried in her hands. 

“Am I seriously the only one thinking about this?” Hilda exclaims, flailing around. “How does that work! Dammit, I’ve been trying to get to this point for the past twenty minutes! How! Does! That! Work! Lysithea is barely five-foot-three and Baltie’s a GIANT! How does he FIT?”

The group falls quiet, gathering themselves as they take a collective moment to ponder these Very Good Points. Annette, after blowing her nose and dumping out her cup, twists the cap on the untouched bottle of brandy and takes a swig before presenting Another Good Point: 

“You’re going off on the assumption that he actually _is_ that big -- ” 

“He’s six-six, he has to be,” Hilda grunts.

“He’s unusually tall, but he’s still a human being,” Dorothea chimes in. “How big do you think he can be, realistically?”

“What’s the biggest you’ve ever taken?” 

The songstress knits her brows together, crossing her arms. “Why are you asking me!” 

“Look around the table, Doe, you’re the only one with the experience!” 

“I don’t know, Hilda! I didn’t bring a ruler on every date!” 

“Give her humor, Dorothea,” Petra lightly suggests, smiling awkwardly. “Make a guess?” 

Groaning, Dorothea presses two fingers to her temple. “Fine. Let’s say, what, seven inches. That’s big, right?” 

“I’d say so,” Annette agrees, supportive. Hilda folds her hands under her chin.

“Okay, and was he tall? Not taller than Baltie, right?”

“No, not at all,” Dorothea admits, shaking her head. “Maybe six-four? If I’m being generous. It was a long time ago, okay? I’ve been bedding another woman the past six years.”

“No, no, that’s great, we’re getting somewhere,” Hilda thanks her, feeling like she’s onto something now. Constance heaves an exasperated sigh next to her and Leonie at least appears to be somewhat entertained, so she goes on. “Now if Baltie is six-six, let’s say he’s eight or nine inches. And if he’s as big around as this -- " (she makes a circle with her thumb and forefinger) “ -- do you think he fits?” 

Annette furrows her brow. "That doesn’t seem like a real size!” 

“I could do it,” Dorothea shrugs. “You just need a little preparation, is all.” 

“You have confidence, Dorothea,” Petra admires her friend, and she tosses the hair over her shoulder. 

“I just know my way around. I’m also bigger, for a girl -- Lysithea, on the other hand…”

“That’s what I mean!” Hilda jabs a finger on the table. “Lysithea didn’t know where her own clit was until she turned twenty, there’s no way she could handle something that huge!”

“Maybe she doesn’t?” Leonie guesses. “Maybe they don’t do penetration. Maybe Balthus just, you know…” 

She makes a raunchy gesture with her tongue between her fingers, and Constance excuses herself for a breather.

“Oh, really? _That’s_ it?” Leonie calls after her, giggling like a schoolgirl. “Hilda is over here screaming about monster cock, and that’s what makes you get up?” 

The blonde turns about to yell back at her. “That gesture was vile!”

“Like you’ve never eaten pussy before!” 

Laughter ripples in small explosives among the group once again as the friends revel in their glee, watching Constance thrash her arms dismissively in the air before gathering her skirts to trot along the terrace toward the back entrance. Hilda hasn’t been this happy about misbehaving in _months_.

“Is she coming back?” Annette sounds almost worried, dabbing at her eyes. Her makeup has started to run. 

“I wouldn’t,” Dorothea giggles. 

“Lysithea might have arrived, she is probably receiving her,” Petra tells them, and Hilda gasps, delighted. She had practically forgotten she was supposed to be coming.

“OOOH, finally! We might get to ask her ourselves!” 

“We?” Leonie asks, puzzled. “You’re the only one losing her mind over this, I could care less!” 

“Shh, shut up, is that her?” 

The group hovers together over the table, shading their eyes and squinting to steal a glance at the party's newest addition. Lysithea (or who she presumes to be Lysithea, rather, seeing as the small woman talking at the door with Constance looks almost nothing like her) is dressed modestly in a charming lavender pinafore and matching bonnet. The housemaids have crowded around her and Constance, leaving only a quarter of her profile in sight. Annette squeezes Hilda’s arm.

“Oh, her hair! It’s...black?”

“She looks gorgeous,” Petra swoons, but Leonie seems confused. 

“She looks...pregnant?”

Hilda is bursting at the seams. “No way. No fucking way -- ”

Dorothea smacks her. The housemaids dip into curtsies, the flourish of their skirts brushing aside to reveal the full picture of their elusive and very, very pregnant friend. Hilda is positively _reeling_. “Shhhhh shut up shut up shut up -- ”

She shoves Annette back into her chair and the rest of them scramble into position as well, gazes falling away from the tall, elegant Constance leading the shorter woman to the garden entrance.“Shut up, she’s coming, here she comes -- ”

The dark-haired mage descends onto the veranda and everyone greets her at once.

“Lysitheaaaa!” 

“Gracious, you look beautiful!”

“Here, let me help you into a chair -- ”

“It’s been so long! How _are_ you!”

“My friends! Thank you, thank you,” she beams at them, eyes shining as she adjusts herself into a seat, spreading her legs apart wide. She makes some harrumph of discomfort as she tries to lean back, and Annette and Dorothea are quick to fuss over her. She waves them off with an assured smile, shaking her head. 

She makes for an adorable pregnant mother. It’s almost unreal, how radiant she looks -- with her dewy skin and pink cheeks. Her boobs! They’re actually _there_! And that black hair! Hilda doesn’t even know where to settle her gaze, until it falls upon her rounded middle. And stays there. 

“I can’t tell you how good it is to see you all.” 

“You look amazing, Lysi,” Dorothea coos at her, reaching to tuck a stray hair from her bonnet back into place. “I hardly recognized you! What on earth have you been up to?”

“Allow me to fetch some fresh tea, dearest Lysithea,” Constance offers her.

She bares all her teeth in a grin. “You’re too kind, Constance -- some sweets too, please, if it’s not a bother.”

“I can’t believe how _different_ you look,” Hilda interposes. She’s not even being subtle about where she’s looking and Lysithea knows her well enough to understand. She grunts, shifting her skirts around to get more comfortable, narrowing her eyes at her.

“Which is the bigger surprise?” 

“As curious as I am about the hair, I want to hear about this first,” she points at her tummy.

“As expected,” Lysithea bites back a smirk. “Well, I suppose I should show you this, first, then.” 

She rests her arm on the edge of the table, flashing the glimmering jewel on her slender finger.

“Oh, Spirits, how beautiful!”

“Sweet Cethleann, the size of that ROCK -- ”

“You’re MARRIED?”

“I didn’t even know you were engaged!” 

“Balthus asked that I waited to tell everyone,” she says hollowly. 

“So you told Constance?” Hilda scolds her.

“ _He_ told Constance,” she says, crabby and airily and sounding much more like herself. “ _And_ Yuri, and Hapi. Then by proxy, Byleth and Linhardt. So of course, that means Caspar and Bernadetta knew, too -- it all got out of control.” 

“When was the wedding, then?” Annette asks, dolefully.

“We didn’t hold a ceremony. After I rescinded my title, we went to Kupala to make our vows. This -- ” (she gestures to her belly) “ -- happened shortly after.” 

“How romantic!” 

“Where is Balthus, then?”

“He’s on an escort mission, leading our King and Emperor past Fodlan’s Throat.”

“I thought my brother would have been tasked with that! Claude didn’t tell me he’d changed his mind!”

“Believe me, I’m annoyed as well,” she complains, sighing. “But Balthus insisted.” 

“You’re not so far along that he could possibly miss the birth, are you?” Hilda says crossly, already mad at the possibility, but Lysithea shakes her head. Wisps of black hair hang around her cheeks, starkly contrasted by the bright pink of her eyes. She looks like a doll.

“Six months, we’ve estimated,” she answers. “Any farther, and I would have contested him. But he’ll meet me in Enbarr after the Almyran council -- we’re arranging for the delivery in the palace.” 

“The palace?!” Annette repeats, blinking her eyes wide. “The _Imperial_ Palace?”

“At the request of the Emperor.” With warmth and contentment, Lysithea smiles into her teacup, breathing in the steam before sipping. “Which brings me to my next surprise.”

“Your hair?” Annette guesses.

“You remember the blood experiments,” she starts off, and Hilda and the others acknowledge with murmurs and nods. “Well, before Hanneman passed away, he made a striking discovery.”

Holding put her arms, Lysithea pulls back the bell sleeves of her dress, and Hilda feels her eyes watering already. She remembers what it felt like the first time she revealed the scars left behind, to see for herself what Those Who Slithered in the Dark were capable of -- how powerless she was for being completely unable to undo what had been done to her. When Lysithea spoke of it the first time, she shuddered through tears, biting her tongue as Marianne and Ignatz carefully, gracefully traced the star-like shapes of marred tissue from her elbow to her wrist. The tears are still there now, but -- 

“The scars,” Hilda mutters, breathless at the reveal of her skin -- now fair and unblemished, totally bare, as if nothing had ever been there at all. They’re gone without a trace to be seen. Hilda claws at her necklaces in shock. Annette reaches around her to touch their friend.

“They’ve disappeared!” she gasps in wonder, completely in awe. “Remarkable...It’s like they never even existed...but how?” 

“Our theory was right,” Lysithea begins to explain, a strange look crossing her face. “Agarthan blood was what we needed.”

Dorothea’s brows wind together tightly, halfway between amused and disturbed. “How ironic.”

“Indeed,” Lysithea agrees. Justly so, she doesn’t appear to be regrettable. “Edelgard was the first we told. She’d asked to undergo the same procedure, but I could tell she was nervous about being alone and -- well. You know Edelgard.”

She nods at the two former Black Eagles and they soften, smiles spreading in agreement. 

“So I suggested we arrange my delivery at the castle, so we can be together.” 

“That’s so sweet,” Dorothea melts. 

“Lysi, that’s wonderful!” Annette beams at her, sharing the look with Petra. 

Constance shuffles back to the table with tea and housemaids in tow. “Such happy news indeed! I’d say a toast should suffice, would it not? Annette, would you care to assist myself and the maids inside? I’m sure he’s nearly finished preparing lunch!” 

The tiny woman scurries to her side, closely followed by an eager Petra, who insists on helping (“I am almost never allowed in my own kitchen!”) and Dorothea, who voices a need to freshen her makeup. Leonie mutters something about one of the blonde maids and disappears into the house as well. With all of them gone from the patio, Hilda is finally granted the once-in-a-blue-moon opportunity to grill her old friend -- but one small misfortune has thrown a stopper in her spinning wheel. 

“What, Hilda.” Lysithea grumbles without even looking at her. Her nose is buried in a cupcake, pink and white frosting gracing the corners of her pink mouth. Her tone is even, but cranky -- bad news for Hilda. She’s already suspicious and it’s never fun when she’s already suspicious. 

“What?” Hilda tries to play it off, uselessly. She plucks a strawberry from the near-empty fruit bowl and shrugs, but Lyisthea’s already scoffing.

“Don’t give me that, Hilda. I know you want to say something,” she says sternly, lines in her forehead creasing. “You’ve had that look in your eyes this whole time.” 

Oh, her little face! Her nose still scrunches up in that sneer, just like when she was fifteen. Maybe she’ll never be too old for some things. Hilda giggles, knowing it’s just going to irritate her more.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re testing my patience, Hilda.”

“Oh, it’s nothing!” Hilda insists, voice lilting in the unpleasantly high register she knows Lysithea cannot stand. “It’s stupid, really -- ”

She earns herself a balled up doily right in the dip of her cleavage. 

“Stop being a _child_ , Hilda,” says the grown woman who just threw table decorations at her friend. “Spit it out before I Warp you into the pond.” 

She fishes the scrap out of her dress and laughs, shaking her head and feeling ridiculous, but she can’t possibly make her any more irate than she already is, so --

“Okay! Really, it’s silly, but I just…”

She glares her down with a look that could easily burn her to a crisp, if she had any less gall -- but lucky for Hilda, her gall is made of iron.

“I just can’t believe I have proof that Baltie fits inside of you! That is, unless you guys magicked the pregnancy. Or if he could only fit the tip inside. Or -- ”

“Or, perhaps the vagina can stretch wide enough to accommodate the width of a penis,” Lysithea cuts her off. Hilda chokes on her own spit, eyes wide as tea saucers. Lysithea heaves a sigh, swiping a dollop of frosting onto her finger and examining it with doctor-like interest. “And given the fact that the body of this child is surely going to pass the circumference of my husband’s massive dick, I must confirm that yes, he fits just fine. Does that satisfy your inquiring mind, Hilda?” 

Hilda opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again, entirely unsure if she’s just heard her right. Maybe she’s already drunk -- mead brewed in the Empire is the strongest, after all. It’s probably just gone to her head. She feels dizzy all of a sudden, dizzy enough to -- 

“We’re back!”

“With champagne!”

“Lysithea! We brought more -- oh, Heaven’s word! Hilda!”

“Oh my! Is she alright?”

“She has fainted!”

“What happened?”

Lysithea dumps a heaping spoonful of sugar into her freshly poured tea, clicking her tongue. “She couldn't handle the gossip anymore."


End file.
